


The Storm

by DreamingTheMelody



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Canon Compliant, Community: seasonofkink, Gen, POV First Person, Pre-Slash, also a ridiculous amount of headcanons, even though I will one-thousand percent not get a bingo at this point, kink:power play, mention of death that doesn't actually happen, most regarding Elodin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 06:43:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12227664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingTheMelody/pseuds/DreamingTheMelody
Summary: I could see the storm inside of him. I could feel the wind howling in his soul, and his sleeping mind striving for something I couldn’t quite name. It was discordant and harsh and angry—a wild, untamed thing that I knew all too well, even if it was my first time seeing it in him.I was not entirely sure that I could tame it.(Elodin calming Kvothe's sleeping mind, from his perspective).





	The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> So originally this was meant to be half as long as it is, but also originally I was supposed to write 5 days this week, and we can see that didn't happen. You win some and you lose some. 
> 
> Technically prompted by the seasonofkink community, even though this turned out to be surprisingly less focused on the power play/control aspect between these two like I thought it would be. I tried, though. Kind of. Somewhat. 
> 
> Warning: a ridiculous, unprompted amount of headcanons regarding Elodin and the study of naming itself. I don't really come out and say any of them out-right, but I establish a good amount in this. I apologize if that's not your cup of tea. 
> 
> This is my first time writing for this fandom, as well; I'm hoping I did it justice. I'm also not entirely sure about the first-person pov, but Pat writes most of the books that way, and I guess part of me felt odd not writing that way with that in mind. 
> 
> Let me know what you think.

“Kvothe?” 

I called his name as I slowly made my way over to stand in front of him, but he did not respond. He sat motionless on a wooden stool in the center of Kilvin’s office: skin paler than usual, and eyes downcast. 

“Kvothe?” I called again. There is power in a name, I knew that more than most. His name, especially; I could feel it every time it passed my lips. If it would have jarred him from this numbness, I would not have been surprised. 

Yet nothing changed; he sat there, as unmoving as carved stone, staring sightlessly at the pile of wooden shards on his lap. I knew what had happened, if not the why and how. This state was nothing knew to me. 

But I dreaded it, all the same. 

I reached forward and placed my fingertips under his chin, and the warming of my skin at the touch dazed me, despite myself. Yet I quickly dismissed the feeling of discomfort; I needed to focus on helping him, not this… physical contact that I still managed to be unaccustomed to. 

“Kvothe,” I said once more, and I could see that he was with me, now. He blinked his eyes—a slow, confused blink—and then there they were, sightless vibrant green barely meeting my gaze. 

I could see the storm inside of him. I could feel the wind howling in his soul, and his sleeping mind striving for something I couldn’t quite name. It was discordant and harsh and angry—a wild, untamed thing that I knew all too well, even if it was my first time seeing it in him. 

I was not entirely sure that I could tame it. 

“Aerlevsedi,” I said to him, maintaining eye contact all the while. “Say it.” 

I could hear his friends’ voices in the distant background, but I couldn’t have focused on them if I had wanted to. There was only him and I in this space, my fingertips pressing against his cheek and his eyes on mine, his sanity half-there, half-gone in that storm of the wild wind. 

“Aerlevsedi,” I said to him once more. 

He numbly parroted it back to me, and there was something in me that came awake at his simple obeisance. My eyes closed briefly and without thought, the sound of his voice and his storm and the weak attempt at naming the wind filling the innermost parts of myself. That part of me, that low, languorous part, wondered what more he might do, if I bade him to. 

But here was not the place for such thoughts, and especially not now, when his sanity was tenuous at best. Already, his gaze was drifting down once more, down to the shard of Maplewood turned red with his blood. 

I placed my hand beneath his chin yet again and tilted his face to look at mine, and I could see him in his eyes, now. The fog of numbness was gone from his gaze, but the howling windstorm most certainly was not. 

There was no time for worries or doubts, but I could feel them trying to make themselves known to me regardless. There was a chance, I knew, that I might tear his mind apart in trying to fix him. 

Yet there was a chance, as well, that I might tear his mind apart in trying to break him. 

But there was no time, no reason, no benefit for dwelling on these thoughts. So instead of continuing on in this way, I breathed deep and opened myself to him. 

I felt my soul give a shudder—a tremulous, internal sort of feeling—that nevertheless resonated in every corner of my being. There was too much, too much of him and his storm and his breath and his heartbeat, and that languorous part of me wanted to fall deep into the swirling, discordant chaos that was Kvothe and claim that power for myself. I knew him now, inside and out, and there was a power in this knowing that begged to be taken. I knew the inner-workings of his body, the design of his mind, and the perfect symmetry of his soul, and it threatened to entice me and engulf me in equal measure. 

But my will was greater than this power, greater than this temptation, greater than my desire to own this power—or so I told myself. It had to be. I, Elodin, would overcome this. 

I reached in, deep down into his self, past the storm and past the emotions bubbling up from his core. I knew the name of these things as I passed them—his numbness, his anger, his heartache and his love; they would flutter past my mind and press against my consciousness. But I paid them no mind, and I lost this knowledge just as quickly as it had come. 

I kept reaching, further in and further in, until my mind brushed against the deepest part of his. 

His sleeping mind was powerful, more powerful than most now that it was awakened. He could break and remake the world with this mind, if he knew how. 

I, certainly, knew how. 

I didn’t need his mind for that, though; I was perfectly able to do that on my own. 

It was that thought that I needed to be able to let the name of his sleeping mind flow from the deepest parts of my mind to my lips, and there not be a harsher command behind it as I did so. I pressed my lips to his ear and barely whispered the name. 

I told his mind to sleep. 

And the storm stopped. 

He gave a great cry of shock when it did; this too, was a response that was not new to me. My arms were ready to catch him when he started to topple from the stool. They came up instinctually, almost without conscious thought. 

I rested a hand on his flaming red hair, and another on his back. I could feel the rapid thumping of his heart against my palm, but it gradually slowed as his eyes began to focus on me. 

I waited until he was secure enough to support himself and then quickly left the room; I did not want to deal with his questions or his confusion. I barely wanted to deal with myself, at the moment. 

I was all too aware that if things had gone even slightly different, he would not have been recovering in Kilvin’s office like he was right now—

He would have probably been too dead for that.


End file.
